Wounds Bleed, Wounds Heal
by MadHatterNO.7
Summary: I say goodbye. I move on. Post-Walk.


**Wounds Bleed, Wounds Heal**

 **Full Summary:** I give him a soft smile. I tell him that I'll visit him often. I say goodbye. I move on. Post-Walk.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own any of them.

 **Warnings:**

\- Hinted Gavries.

\- There will be lots of OOC.

\- Lots of mistakes.

\- May contain triggers.

* * *

The hand touches my shoulder again, and this time I somehow find the strength to run. My foot pushes against the ground, the sore muscles contracting painfully and screaming at me as I step out and I break into a forced awkward jog.

I can't feel my legs anymore.

I blink.

My eyes are drooping, threatening to give up on me. My legs have already given up, my mind barely clinging onto them and each time I lift up my leg, the invisible grip loosens.

It won't be long.

It seems so easy to just stop. It seems so easy just to fall and drop to the ground. It seems so easy to just give up. I'm hanging off the cliff, grasping onto something.

Life. _Life._

Something that was taken away from them. From us.

It strikes me every time when I think about that they will never be able to see their parents again or get to have children of their own. That they won't be able to hold their loved ones in their arms again, telling them that they love them.

The dark figure has started running and he waves at me, telling me to keep going until I have walked down all of them. Soon, he gradually disappears over the horizon, leaving me broken.

My body tells me to give up, to just give up, sit down and wait for my ticket.

My mind tells me to do the exact opposite.

I breathe in.

I am numb.

It's rather amazing to think that we all have the ability to take away someone's life, to just tighten our grip on someone's neck, to plunge a knife into someone over and over again or to just load a gun and pull the trigger. But we choose not to.

We are all animals. But morality and love is what makes us human.

But it probably doesn't occur to them that the person they have just given a ticket to have a family, friends that care about them and possibly even a girlfriend. It probably doesn't matter to them.

They don't understand what it's like to see your son laying on the road, blood bleeding out of the bullet hole someone has just put through in their heads. They don't understand what it's like to see your best friend's glassy eyes looking up into the sky, unseeing – long dead. They don't understand what it's like to see the love of your life being driven to insanity.

 _They don't understand._

The crowd is screaming my name, chanting it over and over again, as if I am someone that is worth being idolised.

I laugh because I'm not. I _know_ I'm not worth it.

Scramm, Pearson, Parker, Abraham, Harkness, Baker, McVries, Stebbins, hell, even Barkovitch and Olson – they're the ones who should be worshipped.

 _All ninety-nine of them should be._

Then it strikes me and my breathing hitches. I look up.

Nothing. There was nothing there. _No one was there_.

I stop and my body doesn't take that abrupt motion well. It leans forward, my legs weak and unable to support me anymore.

I fall.

" _I DID IT WRONG!"_

Falling, falling, falling.

" _Not yet!"_

The fall takes eternity. Burning slowly, licking the tips of my life away.

" _Another time, another place."_

I picture my head hitting the pavement, dying as blood pools around my head.

" _No, Ray. It's time to sit down."_

I imagine mum and Jan screaming and crying to get to me after I've been shot.

" _Oh, Garraty!"_

I close my eyes and shut out the rest of the world.

I don't feel.

* * *

I wake up with a bandage wrapped around my head. I lift my right hand to touch it gently, sighing as I feel the rough texture beneath the sole of my fingers. I drop my arm back and start staring at the white ceiling above me. I don't know what day it is or what time it is and I feel like it doesn't matter anymore.

The only thing that seems to matter is that I'm alive but they're all dead.

* * *

The Major comes to visit me to ask me about the prize one afternoon. He enters alone, waving the other two soldiers to stand at the door to prevent anyone from coming in. He makes no move to sit down so I gestured him to the chair next to my bed.

"Please, sit."

I don't look at him but I can imagine his eyes narrowing suspiciously, but regardless, he takes the chair and sits down. I pull the covers up a little to cover my legs, a little insecure about it, before I turn to look at him. Even sitting down, his back is straight, his eyes sharp and everything about him threatens me, his body language clearly sending me the message of do not to challenge his authority.

"Raymond Garraty, good afternoon," He says, "I understand that you're this year's winner."

I stare at him blankly for a while, searching for something on his face before I nod.

"Yes."

"What is it that you desire?"

I tilt my head at him, as if I don't understand what he is saying. Truth is, I don't know what I want either. I want to take care of Scramm's pregnant wife. I want them to cancel the Long Walk. I want a graveyard to honour the ninety-nine boys that died this year. But most of all, I want them back.

I open my mouth but my throat tightens and my voice doesn't come out. It threatens to turn into a choked sob. My hand grips onto the covers tightly as I snap shut my mouth and start to clench my jaws.

 _I promised. We all promised._

"All money will go to Scramm's pregnant wife. I want a graveyard, with _names_. Names that were given by their family, names that were called by their friends – not numbers that you refer them as. I want – I _need_ to give all of them a proper burial."

The Major raises an eyebrow at my request, as if he has just been insulted by a mere boy of sixteen years, but regardless he nods to show that my request is taken care of.

"I must leave now. I will contact you again when your prize is ready," he says, lifting himself out of the chair and soothing down the creases on his clothes, getting ready to head out.

He gives me a curt nod, in which I return out of politeness. Just before he opens the door, I somehow find the courage to stop him.

"It's Forty-seven, sir."

"Sorry?"

He looks confused and I look at him in the eye, surprisingly calm.

"Not Ray Garraty," I say, voice not changing, "Forty-seven."

He stares at me for a while before he grins. I feel a chill run up my spine and I try not to shiver, reassuring myself that he didn't have the right to call me by my given name. His grin is cold and merciless and it reminds me of a monster out of a child's nightmare. He gives me another nod, more willing this time, and he goes.

I stare at the closed door for a few seconds before slipping my upper body underneath the covers and I close my eyes, trying to wipe the mental image of his cruel smile.

Despite the fact I'm under many covers, I feel cold.

* * *

The doctor says it's PTSD. I agree with him.

The doctor says all wounds heal. I somehow doubt that.

I don't know how long it has been, but my head injury is mostly healed and I can finally go home. Mum comes to pick me up from the hospital and Jan decides to tag along. I wait on my bed, half listening to the doctors telling my mum that I have to go see a psychotherapist about my mental health. From their conversation, I am also lucky that I managed to keep my legs.

"Come on, Ray, let's go home," my mum says, carefully slipping onto the chair beside my bed.

I look at her, carefully studying her pursed lips and concerned look and nod.

"Okay."

I don't tell her that I have heard what the doctors said to her. I pretend I don't notice her voice cracking as she tears up, then trying to cover it by smiling. All I do is hold onto her hand tightly, reassuring I'm still here.

 _Still alive._

I attempt to smile at her, but it only causes her tears to start rolling down her cheeks. She places both her hands on mine, caressing them and then holding them as tight as she possibly could without hurting me.

"Oh, Ray," I hear her say.

The ride home is quiet with mum driving up the front and Jan sitting next to me in the passenger seat at the back. She attempts to talk with me, but she stops trying to make conversation when she realises that she won't get much of a response.

I look at her and I know I should feel guilty, but I don't. I turn to look out of the window and I see the familiar streets, houses and street lamps running pass us as the car drives down the street. I try not to think about who lives in these houses and how they might me grieving their unfamiliar relatives or friends that they used to know. Instead, I start counting the street lamps.

At the end of the ride when my mum pulls up on the driveway, I have counted one hundred and twenty seven in total.

Twenty eight more than those who die every year at the Walk.

* * *

Jan comes over to check on me every so often. I feel awful when I see her trying so hard to fix me and mend the brittle relationship between us. She spends hours sitting beside me, holding my hand as I stare off into space, thinking about everything and nothing at the same time. Sometimes it's the everyday things that I think about, like how my mum would sit on her favourite chair in the afternoon, knitting something worthwhile. Sometimes it's the tiny details, like the curve of the pattern imprinted on one of the curtains. Sometimes I remember things that surprise me because I never knew I remembered it, like the dried flower bookmark someone has left in one of the library books on page two hundred and eighty nine.

I don't try not to think about them because they deserve to be remembered. Sometimes I sit there and try to recall everything I know about them but I can't label some of the faces with names. But then I will move on and I spend more time recalling the others I do know, like the way the breath in and out, or the way they laugh and smile.

Jan opens the door slightly and tells me that dinner is ready. I give her a soft smile and tell her I'll be downstairs. She smiles back warily, nods and she closes the door with a quiet click. The tip of my toes touches the cold wooden floor first and I bend down to find my slippers. Then I grab the crutches next to bed.

The delicious aroma of food being cooked is still lingering in the air, not yet to fade. Jan is downstairs setting the table with knives and forks when my mum comes out of the kitchen with plates of food. I stop on the stairs and I go unnoticed by them as they continue their conversation. I slouch gently against the wall, swallowing the sob as my eyes start to get blurry with tears.

With the knowledge that they won't get to go home again, I feel bad – so, so bad. Now I'm covering my mouth, muffling the sobs that have escaped my throat because this feels like home.

* * *

I pay respects to all ninety-nine who died. I talk to their family members. They tell me stories about them and I listen, trying to grasp all the details that build up their character. Sometimes it's easy to imagine them doing something everyone does, like laughing with their friends and going to school. Sometimes it's harder, knowing that the Long Walk had taken their futures from them.

At the end of the day I stand in front of Pete's grave and I lay down a bouquet of flowers onto them, next to the other flowers that has been laid earlier during the day. I kneel down, tracing his name that has been engraved on to the stone and I tell him that I miss him and he was the greatest friend I could have had.

I congratulate him.

Finally I stand up from my kneeling position and I bow, as low as I can and I thank him. Then I stretch my arm forward to pat the tombstone, just like as if I'm patting the shoulder of my friend, ignoring the tears that have started to roll down my face.

I give him a soft smile. I tell him that I'll visit him often. I say goodbye.

I move on.

* * *

After that, Scramm's wife gives birth to a healthy baby boy and is named after his father. I visit them, happy to look after him when his mother is busy. Jan and I remain friends after the break and I'm glad to hear she has moved on and found herself a better boyfriend. I remain single.

As time goes on, I see more smiles on my mum's face and it makes me happy when I see her eyes crinkle as she laughs. Some people, including myself, believe that someday I will move on. All wounds leave scars, I'm not regretting, and there's not one thing I would change or undo. Given the chance again, I would still participate in the Long Walk, time after time, just to meet all of them again.

I visit the graveyard every so often and each time I do so, I feel like sixteen again. All these years, I have never seen the Major come to visit Stebbins, so I have started to take care of the maintenance of his grave. Did I mention that there was this one time when I saw Priscilla at Pete's grave and I didn't hesitate to slap her before I apologised and greeted her politely? I still think, after all this time, she's guilty enough not to slap me back.

I lean one hand on the wall, the other hand pulling my shoes up to slide my feet in as I tell mum that I will be home in time for dinner. I open the door and I bid her goodbye, then I turn to close the door behind me. I breathe in the fresh slightly chilly morning air and I lift my arms up to stretch my muscles and bones.

I smile when my neighbour waves at me, shouting good morning across the street. I wave back and tell him to have a good morning too.

The sky is blue and the clouds are white and it reminds me of the time where we walked down the road, talking, laughing – together. I smile because I'm not planning on letting all those good memories bring me sorrow.

I would like to end the story with 'all is well', but I know that's not quite true.

I take a deep breath and I let it out.

I still believe.

Fin.

* * *

 **Afterword:**

I read _The Long Walk_ on a bus months ago and I really liked it. I had a lot of fun writing this piece and I'm sorry about the format and spacing, I cannot do much about that.

Thank you for reading.

\- Mad Hatter 20/6/15


End file.
